Lying in fetal position, turned to right side, on furthest edge of mattress. Past midnight. Room dark, neighborhood quiet. Staring through frost-rimmed window at stark moon. Anti-abortion activists on undergrad campus earlier today, decrying murder of potential lives. If potentiality is the criterion, then surely every adolescent boy who has ever lived has committed genocide. Nightly. Into wads of Kleenex, old socks, and toilet bowls. Future entrepreneurs, researchers, concert pianists, presidents, and Pulitzer winners–millions at a time–mercilessly flushed to the sewer or tossed among the banana peel and Pop-Tart crust from this morning’s breakfast.